The Runaways
by streetcars
Summary: A young woman finds herself in the dreary town of Forks, Washington and discovers that she's not the only person carrying around dark secrets.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**  
Eighteen. The age of independence. The day that American teenagers wait for with baited breath to make the last of their adolescent accomplishments -- high school graduation, prom night, the last party of the summer before college, the last night spent doing illegal things before the law stated you were old enough to be considered an adult. It's the day that they wait for so that they can free themselves from the confines of childhood homes and wave goodbye as they fly towards unknowns with smiles on their faces. They wait for their last hurrahs and "look, I did it's". They wait for the "Oh my God, I'm gonna miss you's" and the "our parents can't tell us we can't come home after curfew anymore's". They have the whole world in the palms of their hands.

But I don't. I'm not like them. I'm empty handed, my high school diploma isn't on paper, it's more of a theory provided by a program within a "juvenile facility" -- that's what the state so kindly sugarcoats it as. I have no prom dress, no prom date, no night to remember. I have no aisle to walk down, no graduation cap, no gown. I have no home, no childhood, no parents. All I have to show for these last twelve years are a few ratty articles of clothing, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, my sketchbook, my pencils and 124.57 to my name. I shoved them all into my backpack. Beneath where all of that had lain a moment before was the only book I actually owned, a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I only own it because one of the guards said I would like Holden Caulfield and gave it to me. I only got a few pages into it before I began to despise him. Some protagonist he was with all his defiance and anger and immaturity and complete foolishness. What did he really have to be angry about? He knew his true name. He had his siblings. He didn't have to see his mother's face in his memory at night and know that she didn't want him. I had to live with that. I was alone, unwanted and up until now, I was stuck. But no more. I pulled a sheet of paper out of my notebook and a pen before zipping my bag shut. I wrote.

_"For the next person to stumble in here, you should know that you'll be kicked, punched, tossed around, ignored, ridiculed, laughed at and never taken seriously here. We're nameless faces, a bunch of brats wrangled together by the fact that nobody cared enough to give us somewhere to go or teach us anything that means something. We're 1,000 abandonments. But if you want to get through this in, at the very least, one piece, then remember one thing before you trash this: you are not stuck here forever. You remember that and you can do whatever you want, you'll be invincible in the end. The most satisfying and rewarding thing you'll ever do is walk out of here. It'll be the one thing that will make the difference because it'll be the one time in your life that you won't be left behind, because you'll finally get to abandon everything and everyone that never wanted you._

_Never forget that."_

I put the pen's cap back on before pocketing it and setting the note on the bed. I picked up the book from the top of the pillow and looked at the cover. It looked as if it had seen better days and was wearing thin. Weren't we all? Walking over to the small trash can, I tossed it in and after a few moments there, looking at it sitting in the bottom of the bin, I smiled.

"See ya, Holden."

I shouldered my backpack and walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me so that it echoed one last time. On my way out of the building, I breathed in the fresh air and made peace with the fact that I was going to get lost and I didn't want to be found.


	2. Nomad

01. nomad

They call Seattle "the Emerald City" and driving toward it, I was able to see why. It glittered on my way in. It wasn't like Chicago or San Francisco or Portland, all of which I had lived in within the last year and a half. It was Oz, in more ways than one. I had become a bit of a nomad since the day I turned 18 and kicked down the door of the cage that imprisoned me as a juvenile delinquent. I never stayed more than a few months in one town. It kept me on my toes, it kept me circulating and circulation was something I had grown accustomed to over the years. The system kept you skipping around from home to home until someone decided it was too much of a hassle to send you back now that you'd unpacked everything. If not, you were a prisoner. You were unwanted. Unwelcome. Untamed. But over time, you became unapologetic. Unafraid. If I were to have a word tattooed to my forehead, it would be "unwavering". It took a lot more than just the glare of authority to shake the foundation of me. I was firmly rooted into the ground like the oldest redwood tree and it moved with me when I was placed with some poor bunch of suckers who thought that taking in a teenager would be a good idea. They never saw me coming but they always saw me leave, in their good riddance.

"Your biggest problem is your mouth," one of the counselors said to me once, "you're always so eager to voice your thoughts. Why is that?"

"Well, I don't exactly have a say on where you guys want to place me so I might as well have a say on something. A human being can only take silence and disregard for so long." I sat there with my arms and legs crossed.

It seemed fated that I'd always had the advantage of being able to say things that would raise some kind of subtle hell but never get in trouble for it. The security guard who gave me his copy of The Catcher in the Rye always told me I had a way with words I shouldn't waste on causing trouble. After a while, the Board of Idiots, the group of people that decided where to place us, stopped sending me off. I was like a couch at a furniture store that was so old, the owners didn't want to sell it anymore. Subsequently, they hid me in storage with the rest of the antiques they weren't able to toss out onto the street. I mingled with them, covered in dust and cobwebs and wear. Eventually, my voice lost its will and I didn't have anything to say to anyone. It became exhausting to argue on a lost cause. I began to realize that I could've said whatever I wanted but in the end, who really listened? Nobody had ever cared that much. I just remained another nameless face.

I went to see about a place in Seattle, a little jewel with a four floor walk-up that I'd found over the computer. The landlord wanted 800 dollars a month for rent. It was a high asking price but in a city like Seattle, it was definitely an opportunity to snatch before someone else did. Twenty minutes into Washington, the real estate agent called to notify me of the fact that I was set to see the place early the next morning. By that time, I was looking forward to it. After all, spending my days on the road and nights in small hotels wasn't exactly my preferred way of living. Luckily, this trip was only three hours from Portland. I decided I'd arrive the day before and explore the new city that was to be my home. I'd heard a great deal about Seattle and I was curious as to what all the fuss was about. I wandered around for hours, absorbing everything, learning, making note of places I'd have to visit again. That night, while I tried to fall asleep, the memories mapped themselves in my head.

I showed up to find a prim, proper, tight-laced realtor there, the same woman I'd spoken to over the phone. Her dark blazer and matching skirt looked as expensive as the snakeskin high heels on her feet. She had her hair pinned back in the most presice and tucked in bun I'd ever seen and she wore a sleek pair of rectangular glasses. Also, expensive looking. I guess the agent hadn't expected a torn-at-the-knee jeans, tattered t-shirt and Chucks kind of 19-year-old nobody. I could only imagine what she thought of my hair which was a dark tussle of unruly waves. By the way her eyes widened in complete surprise, I figured that I had guessed right.

Begrudgingly and with her nose in the air, the woman showed me around the one-bedroom apartment. It was small but had more than enough space for me. It wasn't like I had too many belongings, it all fit inside my large duffel bag and the backpack I had on me. The living room area was small with a fairly high ceiling and the wooden floor moaned softly beneath my every step while she went on in detail about everything. The kitchen was a tight space but manageable. All I'd need was to perfect my maneuvering. The bathroom was no bigger than the kitchen and even the hallway made me a little claustrophobic. When we arrived in the bedroom, the first thing I noticed was that it was the most spacious room in the entire apartment but not by much. The strong smell of fresh paint lingered in the air, the walls were a glossy beige. Still, it had potential to be cozy enough. I didn't need much to be comfortable. There were a pair of windows and out of them, I could see the city. It sprawled out, displaying itself as a greeting to all who came. Seattle shimmered with life while the Space Needle served as its torch and made its presence known to the Pacific Northwest.

"Quite a view, don't you think?" I heard her soprano tone ask as she walked up beside me.

I gave a nod of my head and mulled over thoughts for a quiet moment before turning to her and giving my final decision. "I like it ... I think you've sold me. I can hand in my deposit and the first 800 dollars' rent money as soon as possible."

"1,000."

I looked at her, puzzled. "Excuse me?"

"1,000 dollars is the rent," she corrected me as a smug smile snaked itself onto her face.

"Wait, hold on a minute. Last week, when we spoke, you told me that the rent was 800 dollars. Why has it gone up all of a sudden?" I asked in disbelief.

"Well, you see, Miss, this is a very valuable piece of property."

"And that means?"

"Simply put, we don't allow street rats to rent with us. You see, we have a reputation to uphold and as much fun as it was to show you around, I'm afraid I'm going to have to find a more worthy candidate."

My face fell into shock. I could tell that she put her emphasis into her statement with a malicious intent. The smirk she wore was full of spite. I felt my cheeks burning beneath my skin, my eyes fixed on her.

"Wow, this is awkward," she faked a girlish chuckle, "why don't you run along now? I'm sure there are far more suitable parts of town for you to rent in. I'll show you the way back out."

Regaining my composure and gathering all the strength I could, I breathed a laugh and bit down on my lip, shaking my head. With my fingers wrapped around the straps of my backpack, I turned and followed her out slowly. At the door, I made sure to catch my shoelaces beneath the sole of my sneaker, causing me to trip and go flying into the wooden door which slammed powerfully right into the wall. The realtor whirled around.

"Oh man!" I faked a gasp. "Stupid shoelaces come untied all the time." She hustled over and saw that the edge of the door and its knob left a nasty impression in the wall, the paint job also ruined. The woman stared at me, stunned. I smiled the kind of smile a sheepish child would give. "Oh, would you look at that. You know us street rats -- always so clumsy." With that, I let the facade of the smile on my face fade and replaced it with a scowl before I walked out in bittersweet victory.

My bruised ego and I stormed into my old Honda Civic, the used but reliable car I'd bought in San Francisco after saving enough money from my waitressing jobs. I had gotten sick of riding the Greyhound to my new cities and thought a car would be a good investment. I rested my forehead against the steering wheel and closed my eyes, frustrated, as an attempt to ease myself back into a state of calm. I had nowhere to go. I sat there for what had to have been, at least, twenty minutes, turning over my options. I had already checked out of the hotel but it wasn't the kind of grand stay that would take me back there, it was far too overpriced. I couldn't exactly sleep in my car either. There was no way I'd take the chance against the crime rate, there or anywhere else. With a sigh, I plucked my map off the passenger seat. Olympic National Park was a tourist destination and with that knowledge, I also knew that there had to have been more affordable lodgings in that area. It would only be a temporary roof over my head while the search for another place in Seattle began. It was a while away but I had nothing to lose and it was worth the shot. For a minute or two longer, I ran through the trip in my head again, then plugged in my trusty iPod and pulled out of the parking space, heading northwest.

Following the Pacific Coast Scenic Byway, the drive was peaceful without the anger I'd left behind me. I made sure to pay close attention, although, I knew that I couldn't get lost as long as I kept with the Byway. All I'd have to do was turn right back around. For two hours, everything seemed to become greener and greener. Passing by the park, my eyes lingered on the sight in the distance as the majestic beauty of land untouched blurred by. It was overwhelming and pristine, green and snow-capped. It was wild. No man's land. Tired, the view kept me going.

The farther I drove, the darker it got, I drove beneath the blanket of gray skies. The sun played hide-and-seek with me, peeking its head out from behind the clouds every once in a while. When I pulled over to look at my map, I knew that if I kept going, I'd eventually hit the coast. It had been a long time since I'd seen an ocean and the idea of it was enticing. Still, I was too tired to go on. By mid-afternoon, I'd found a city. Port Angeles, it was called. The waterfront was much nicer than the one in Boston that I'd frequented. The tall buildings confined the harbor and stole any chance of a panoramic perspective like the one this pier had. The Olympic Mountains loomed a few miles away like slumbering watch dogs, on call at a moment's notice of trouble. I explored for about an hour, not wanting to get myself lost in a place I'd only just stumbled upon. The boardwalk was lined with shops and dining. There were plenty of people but not enough to overpower, the way it did in Massachusetts. It was nice.

Not too long after hopping back in the Civic and driving for a bit, I found a comfortable looking inn. It wasn't as affordable as I'd hoped but it was just a resting place for the night. After checking in and leaving my things back in the simple room bestowed upon me, I returned to the boardwalk for a little more exploration and in search of sustenance. The sun was setting when I decided on ordering at a Mexican restaurant called Fiesta Jalisco. As ravenous as I was, I took my dinner back to the inn and took the quiet time to think about what my next move would be. I couldn't get my mind off the prospect of going further west to see the ocean. The map lay open on the bed and I noticed that the beach further west was part of the park, despite the fact that it wasn't attached to the main area, which was too vast for me to even consider looking into. I wasn't curious enough to be tempted to go into the wilderness that stretched over and accounted for most of the region. But, the beach wouldn't hurt. According to the map, all I had to do was follow the Byway before veering right on the 110. It wasn't rocket science.

Later, I lay in bed, thinking about my plans. I'd go to the beach, find myself another inn for the next night and make my way back east. Simple. My life was simple, the way it always had been. Quiet, solitary and simple. I liked it that way.

The next day, I awoke two hours before checkout. I'd gotten showered and dressed, then graciously accepted the continental breakfast offered to me. In no time, I was back in downtown Port Angeles, giving the boardwalk one last sweep. The high noon sun made the surface of the water at the harbor sparkle in its light. An hour later, taking that one final image with me, I retraced my steps back to my car and started the drive towards the shore.

It was nearly two hours at the wheel when I smelled salt in the air, the first sign that I was nearing my final destination. I followed the 110, windows open, breeze weaving through the car. Though, the sky began to darken a bit behind the few more clouds in the sky this far west, I wasn't at all deterred. I was in Washington State and had been expecting for the rain to catch up with me at some point.

The sound of waves crashing and the trail ending stopped me. When I parked the Civic, I climbed out, keys in hand and doors locked behind me, my bags were in the backseat. There I stood frozen and breathed in the air, closing my eyes. Pebbles crunched beneath my steps as I followed the sound and smell that, for the moment, outweighed my other three sense. The pebbles underneath my sneakers soon became larger rocks. Then, it came into view: the dark churns of the Pacific, a slate-colored palette of rocks, a scatter of driftwood along the shore, sand and the steep descents of rocky mini-cliffs capped by tall trees. It was eerie but alluring, all at once. The gloom of it pulled me in. The waves hit the shore with power so the current had to have been a strong one. I didn't know how to swim so I wasn't planning on testing the waters. Not in that regard, anyway. I folded the legs of my jeans upward so that they were cuffs below my knees. My sneakers were next to be pulled off, stuffed with my socks, before I let them dangle off the ends of my fingers as I ambled over to the thin strip of sand where it met the ocean. Then, I waited for it. The salt water felt cool on my feet, soothing. Each wave was slightly stronger than the last, drenching the cuffs of my jeans, but it didn't matter to me. I wanted to enjoy the moment. It had been so long since I'd truly enjoyed something and I wanted to savor it. That's how I made all of my memories. The ones that I liked.

A small group of seagulls circled the sky over the nearby island, hovering over the firs as they called to one another. I watched them swoop down to the water. The power of nature was something that always stirred me. Even as a child, nature interested me. I'd always been under the impression that if I could get away from the city and into the arms of nature, then nothing -- not the courts, not child services, not old ghosts, not the past -- nothing could touch me while I was cradled there. Every night, before bed, all of us wished for help and for most of us, it never came. And, like them, I never asked for anything, ever again. Wishing upon falling stars that couldn't hear me became a foolishly romantic idea and I wasted no more of my time doing it. On the beach, I'd successfully found my way into the cradle of nature and the irony of it all was that I didn't want it anymore. I'd grown up and came to ache for the chaos of a city after a certain length of time passed me by. The greenery of rural America or anywhere else would never serve me as a hiding place. It couldn't keep me out of danger if I stuck out like a sore thumb, which I did. I didn't belong there. But, if anything, I knew it was nice to pretend, even if for a short time.

Strolling back up the sand, I could see how far the driftwood covered the shore like skeletal remains left carelessly in plain view. There was a pile a few feet away and I perched myself on one of the white-washed trunks, facing the Pacific. The serenity of the beach was undeniable and magnetic. It was hard to believe such a place existed so quietly and so nestled away under cloud cover, still so close to the hustle and bustle of an urban hub. The view on that beach had to be more breathtaking than anything one could see at the top of the swaying Space Needle.

Laughter brought me out of my reverie. A stone's throw away, three children were kicking sea water at one another, their satin black heads of hair bobbed with every turn, sprint and kick. Their giggles echoed along the beach. Their smiling faces lit up everything and it filled me with melancholy when I realized I'd never smiled with my eyes the way they did. The smallest of the three chased the older two, who waved for him to follow but spoke in a tongue I didn't recognize. I watched them curiously, in wonder of their presence. Just beyond them, the figure of an elegant woman I hadn't previously noticed strolled in their wake. Her raven hair was in a neat, long braid over her shoulder. She held a wrap around her and her beautiful face was glorious with a kind smile. Their mother. I'd heard for many years that loving mothers looked at their children that way but I hadn't seen it for myself until I was already an adult. For a long time, the idea of "loving mothers" was also foolishly romantic. But I did admit, there were rare exceptions.

I remembered a girl at the youth home, Laurie. She was a native of Washington State, she'd lived in Bellingham. I could still hear her voice in my head, detailing when she would hide under her bed on the nights her deadbeat father came home in drunken stupors and took his troubles out on her mother. Those nights led to the nervous condition she'd developed and remained with, long after the woman packed their bags and fled into the night with her little girl. Though, the slur she was left with was from brain damage, a reunion gift when the drunk had found them in an apartment in South Boston. Her mother didn't escape his wrath so lucky. In one night, she was an orphan, just like we all were. One of my bunkmates asked her if she felt any sadness for having lost her but Laurie said no. She confessed feeling relieved for her mother for having finally gone where he couldn't hurt her. For going to a place that he could never follow. She said the only thing that allowed her to sleep soundly was the memory of her loving mother, giving her the same look I saw on that woman's face on the beach. I smiled for Laurie. Last I'd heard, she was married now and living a long way from Southie, from Boston.

As the children ran up ahead of me, they noticed I was there. The two older ones waved with both arms. I waved back. They came over, the little one in tow, and stopped in front of me.

"Can we have those sticks, please?" the eldest asked bashfully.

At my feet sat a pair of driftwood branches, small and thin enough for them to carry.

"Sure," I answered and handed them over.

"Thank you," they spoke in unison and with sheepish grins, ran off with their younger sibling, wielding the sticks as swords.

Their mother ducked her head in thanks and I returned the gesture, smiling back just as kindly.

They played for a long time and I sat there for what seemed like, and probably was, hours. Alternating, I watched them and then the ocean. The stones clicked against one another under the driftwood and every now and then, I'd examine one. In the end, I decided to make a few of them permanent keepsakes. Up ahead, the family began to walk in the direction that they came from. As they passed, the mother called out to me.

"You should get going," she said, "there's a storm brewing. You don't want to be here if the driftwood starts flying, dear."

I nodded my head graciously once more. The woman smiled and my eyes followed the quartet as they left, until their figures were too far into the fog for my eyes to see clearly. She was right. The sky looked dangerous. Even darker clouds approached the shore from over the water and it was frightening, bolts of lightning streaked the distance, thunder softly rumbling a symphony. The last thing I needed was to be struck by a flying tree or a stray lightning bolt, no matter how deep in a hole I was in.

After slipping my socks and sneakers back on, I stood up and dusted myself off on the way to the car, which rested under the cover of trees that still stood at the end of the trail. The strong wind tossed my hair around wildly and behind me, the sound of the waves crashing violently against the sand became increasingly powerful. My first thought was that of comfort for being able to witness the proverbial calm before the storm.

With the Civic going back east, my elbow rested against the closed windowsill and my hand sat on my head while the other steered. The stone keepsakes rattled against each other in the passenger seat atop my map and it grew louder with every bump in the road. I wondered how much time I had left before the storm made landfall. Surely the reports would've been on the radio but there was no way of telling if I'd be able to pick up a signal with the raging bull stirring up the sky in my wake. Out the windshield, the sight of leaves and tress rustling viciously clued me in to the fact that I didn't have much time and I needed to find shelter to wait it out in, fast. I only took my eyes off the road for a second to reach for the dial on the radio and turn it until I could find a station. But when I looked back up, there was something there. A man. Blonde, intimidating and perfectly still in the gleam of my headlights. His eyes were darkness. With a gasp, I turned the steering wheel to swerve around him. The eruption of goosebumps and a violent chill overtook me when, after a split second blink, I saw nothing where he had been standing. It was too late. I had no time to get out of the way of the large branch ahead of me. It caught under the left side of the tires and when I tried to level the car with a turn to the right, it caused me to skid off the asphalt, into the woods. The massive tree trunk came fast at me, thick and unmoving. It didn't look as if it would back down from the front end of any car, especially not mine. The seatbelt pressed against me hard as I stomped down on the breaks, again too late. It dug into my chest and ribcage. My breath caught in my lungs. For all I knew, an invisible hand could've been crushing my throat. That was the last emotion I registered before the world fell apart. Panic.

Metal twisted. Combustion. Glass shattered. Bones broke. All at once. Chaos. Everything.

And then there was nothing.

Everything was a haze and bright lights. Red, blue and white lights that gleamed, hurting my head. My face was sticky with warmth, I tasted blood in my mouth. I felt it in my hair and pressed against my face. I closed my eyes for a moment and hoped to die from the pain. I begged to be disconnected from it. The only real thing I could feel was excruciating and my body rebelled. I could hear detached voices shouting hurried words.

"Hurry up and get her in the back!"

"Careful!"

"How long has she been here, Chief?"

"I've been here ten minutes, I was driving back to town and heard the crash, called it in. Sam, are you ready?"

"Yeah, open it up."

The door was pried open, the metal groaned in agony. Then, I felt hands handle me carefully.

"Okay, you're gonna be alright. I'm not gonna hurt you."

I opened my foggy eyes and found myself looking drowsily back at a young man, his hair long and black. He had somehow peeled the seatbelt off me and then, with great care, lifted me out. It hurt everywhere but I was enveloped in heat within his arms. I lay back. There was a light shined into my eyes. Rain droplets hit my face and watered down the flow of blood on my cheeks. My already half-open eyes then shut.

"Miss? Miss, can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?"

A choked sound.

"Let's load her in."

I looked around me again, I could barely get my lids wide open. My eyes fell on the trees. I could see my car, my poor baby folded up like an accordion, wrapped around a tree.

"Sam, be careful. Nice and easy now."

As I floated away from the scene of the crash, I swore I saw a dark shadow move behind it, past where the light hit the trees.

There it was again, looming in darkness.

I wondered if it was him. The one with the dark eyes. If I could only stretch my hand to reach it ... I wanted to. Inside the back of the ambulance, I heard the man speak in a husky voice.

"Halley Merrin. Massachusetts State ID."

"Massachusetts, what the heck is she doing in Forks?" That voice, I assumed, was the Chief I'd heard earlier. "Halley? Can you hear me? You're going to be alright, just hold on, Halley. Just hold on, we're almost there."

I floated like a spectre, sounds of voices muffling and soaring in a crescendo. Everything stopped around me for a moment before I floated again into the smell of a hospital. Rustic metal and death washed into my lungs. I hated hospitals. A new man hovered over me. He was handsome, his face was etched with worry.

"Her name is Halley Merrin, according to her ID. She crashed her car right into a tree out by the reservation."

"Miss Merrin, can you speak to me?" the new man asked.

I opened my mouth a bit to speak but no sound emerged.

His eyebrows pulled together. "You'll be alright. Just stay with me now. It'll be over soon."

The last thing I saw was his handsome face and the last thing I heard was, "Don't leave us now, Miss Merrin. Show us your strength."

limbo.

I was semi-conscious and the first thing I felt was pain shooting through me. I wailed, trying to will it away. The shrieks hurt my ears and soon, a rush of white coats and scrubs tried to hold me down, attempting futilely to subdue me. People were trying to talk over my voice, sputtering out orders in foreign medical languages. I screeched, I seethed, I felt the blood pulsing through me. I clawed at them. I hated them. I grabbed a hold of the bed railings. All of a sudden, the pain deadened and I was a sweaty, crumpled heap. The world became a wavelength -- a crest and a pitfall. Garbled words slithered into my awareness and Picasso faces hovered over me. They were all distorted eyes tilted sideways with mouths down at their chins. They'd shown me mercy. I was numb again. Their faces faded away.

A woman's gentle face appeared to me, then. The copper-skinned woman smiled down at me. Her smile was warm, it was safe. I thought she stroked my hair as I floated back to black.


End file.
